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It’s late, the nursery nearly pitch black but for the soft, faint purple-ish glimmer of the nightlight in the corner.
Emma can just barely tell where he is in the dark of the small room, but she knows he’s here with them —he always is.
He’s sat on the floor, she knows, uncomfortable as can be, but unmovable just the same. His back against the closet’s door, legs unfolded in front of him, his face in his hand.
It’s been a long day; a day of waiting, a day of worrying and pacing and sickness abounds.
They are home now though, have been for a few hours, and while the little bundle in Emma’s arms has been asleep and settled for almost as many hours as they’ve been home, there’s nothing humanly capable of separating them from their daughter right now.